


Visions of Sugar Plums

by TaleasOldasTimeandSpace



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Clara's not going to let him get away with it, F/M, Fluff, The TARDIS ships it, Whouffaldi Secret Santa, also emotionally stunted, the Doctor is absolutely shameless, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-18 18:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13105695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleasOldasTimeandSpace/pseuds/TaleasOldasTimeandSpace
Summary: All Clara wants to do is listen to pretty music at Christmastime.  Is that so much to ask?Apparently yes.  Yes it it.





	Visions of Sugar Plums

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jontinf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jontinf/gifts).



> This is for [longjackets](http://longjackets.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr for the Whouffaldi Secret Santa. Happy Whouffaldimas!

‘Please, Doctor?’  Clara rocked back and forth beside the console as she grinned up at him.  ‘It would be so much fun.’

He flicked a lever, deliberately avoiding her gaze.  ‘“Fun” isn’t the word that comes to mind.  “Excruciating,” maybe.  “Mind-numbingly-dull, definitely.’

‘That’s three words.’

‘I hyphenated.’  he edged around her, pulling the monitor with him.

She rolled her eyes.  ‘Whatever.’  Following him, she pushed the monitor back out of the way.  ‘Don't be so grouchy.  I thought you liked music.’

‘I'm Scottish.  I'm supposed to be grouchy.  And have you ever actually listened to that music without visions of sugar plums dancing in your head?  It's downright terrifying.’

She hugged his arm and rested her chin on his shoulder.  ‘Aw, come on, Doctor.  Live a little!  I promise I'll protect you from the Sugar Plum Fairy.’

His eyebrow twitched.  ‘I never said I was afraid of the Sugar Plum Fairy.  I'm just saying that music is seriously creepy.’

‘But Doctor!’  Her eyes went wide.  ‘Watching the  _ Nutcracker _ is a Christmas tradition.’

‘Chronologically speaking, it's July.  And stop with the eyes already.’

‘But that's even better!  Christmas in July!  Please?’  Somehow her eyes got even bigger.   ‘For me?’

He sighed, letting his head fall to the console.  ‘Anything.  Just stop with the eyes.  I can't take the eyes.’

* * *

 

The Doctor glared as Clara—not his Clara, the Clara onstage.  Fake Clara—threw her slipper at the Mouse King, saving the Nutcracker and ending the battle.  ‘You just like this because the main character is named Clara and you can pretend it’s about you.’

She grinned cheekily.  ‘Well, I  _ did  _ save the life of a man with an enormous chin who took me on a magical adventure to an incredible new world in gratitude, so...maybe it  _ is _ about me!’

The Doctor snorted, drawing irritated looks from the people around them.  Clara turned her attention back to the dancers, but he wasn't done.  ‘I have better things to do than watch pudding brains hop around to the world’s scariest music.’

Her lips twitched.  ‘Doctor, hush.  You’re going to get us in trouble.’

He put a dramatic hand on his chest.  ‘I would  _ never. _  I’m the epitome of class and good behaviour.’

She pressed a finger over his lips.  ‘Then  _ shush. _ ’

She kept her eyes on the stage, so she didn’t see how his eyes tracked from her to her finger to the stage and back to her.  Or how he frowned when her hands dropped into her lap when she relaxed back into her seat.  

He waited for a lull in the action, before leaning over and remarking conversationally, ‘Did you know that ballerinas get all sorts of nasty bruises and wounds on their feet?  Sometimes their toenails fall right off!’

‘Doctor!’  With a hoarse shriek, she half-threw herself out of her chair to slap both hands over his mouth.

Around them, people hissed to please be _ quiet. _  The Doctor ignored then, fighting to pry Clara's hands off his mouth so he could keep sharing unpleasant ballet facts. Before he could get to the bit about dancing on fractured bones, an official-sounding throat was cleared behind them.

‘Excuse me, miss, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.  You’re disturbing the ballet.’

Clara gaped at the usher from where she sprawled across the Doctor.  ‘What?’ 

The usher gestured for them to precede him up the aisle.  ‘We’ve received several complaints.’

The Doctor got to his feet, sticking his hands in his pockets and grinning with toothy unrepentance.  ‘Clara.  How could you.’

She buried her face in her hands.  ‘Shut up.’

* * *

 

‘I can’t believe you got us kicked out of the opening night of the  _ Nutcracker.’ _  Clara  stalked back to where they parked the TARDIS, the Doctor trailing behind her like a smug penguin.  ‘I can never show my face in 1890s St Petersburg again.’

He snickered.  ‘Stick around for another thousand years or so, you’ll be able to say that about a lot of places.’

‘Yeah, well, not everyone can change their face so they can sneak back into places after being banned.’  An angry kick sent a loose pebble flying down the street until it bounced off the TARDIS.  ‘Oops, sorry, girl.’

‘That’s a rather gross oversimplification of the regeneration process,’ he pointed out with a sniff.

She whirled on him, shoving a finger in his face.  ‘Shut it.  You don’t get to talk.  You talking is what got us into this mess in the first place.’

He caught her hand and gently tucked it through his arm, pulling her along.  She growled, but didn’t resist.  ‘Come on, Clara.  You were as bored as I was, admit it.’  She grunted, but her lips were twitching again.  ‘I’ll take you to the Symphony Forest on Laurelindorinan.  Now that’s real music.’

Clara leaned against the TARDIS with a sigh.  ‘I guess so.  But couldn’t you have waited to get us kicked out until after the  _ pas de deux? _  That’s my favourite part.’

‘If that’s all you’re upset about…’  With a snap of his fingers, the TARDIS door opened and the _Nutcracker’s_ _pas de deux_ started playing from the console speakers.  He bowed with a flourish and a grin, holding out a hand.  ‘Shall we?’

She raised an eyebrow.  ‘Seriously?  The last time you danced you looked like a drunk giraffe with an inner ear problem.’

‘Yes, well, I think we can both agree I’ve improved greatly since then.’  He wiggled his fingers.  ‘One dance.  What do you say?’

Shaking her head, she put her hand in his, laughing as he pulled her into a waltz.  ‘You really have improved.  Is it luck, or have you been taking lessons on the sly?’

‘I’ll have you know this is pure, natural talent.’  As if in proof, he spun her out before bringing her back, tucking her against his chest with their arms crossed over her waist.

‘Talent.  Right.’  She shot him a smirk over her shoulder.  ‘And electric guitars?  Really?’

‘You can’t say it doesn’t sound good.  Everything sounds good on electric guitars.’

‘I didn’t say anything.  Is it you playing, or are you streaming it from your space Amazon account?’

‘Stop putting “space” in front of everything.  Nobody does that.  And what would you say if I told you it was me?’

‘I’d say…’  She twirled out from his arms and booped his nose.  ‘I’m surprised you would deign to play the “world’s scariest music.”’

‘I didn’t say it was all scary.  Just the bit about the Diabetes Fairy.  In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Tchaikovsky was trying to send us a message.  I should look into to that…’  He frowned into space, dance forgotten.

At least until Clara poked him in the arm.  ‘Doctor.  The Sugar Plum Fairy is a fictional character in a fairy story.  She is not an evil alien bent on world domination or whatever, and the  _ Nutcracker _ is not a cry for help.  You’re just being a grinch who hates Christmas and pretty music.’

He crossed his arms and leaned in the doorway of the TARDIS.  ‘I’m hurt.  Not to mention shocked and offended that you would think such a thing.’  Jerking a thumb behind him to where the  _ pas de deux _ was still playing from the console speakers, he added, ‘And anyway, if I hate pretty music, what d you call that?’

‘I call it—’ she paused, eyes tracking above his head.  ‘What on earth is that?’

‘What is what?’  His gaze drifted upward.  Dangling above his head was a delicate cluster of greenery and white berries, tied with a TARDIS blue ribbon.

‘Is that  _ mistletoe?’ _

His mouth worked soundlessly for a minute.  ‘That, that isn’t me.’

‘Right.  Because you don’t do tradition.  Well, thanks for the dance.  Let’s get to that forest, shall we?’  With a grin, she made to brush past him into the TARDIS.

‘Not so fast.’  He caught her arm, whirling her into a dip.  ‘I didn’t say I don’t do  _ all _ tradition.’

‘Then shut up and kiss me, daft old man.’

‘If you insist.’  As he leaned down to kiss her, he decided that maybe this trip wasn’t so boring after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Easter, my fellow Whouffaldians!


End file.
